


Hedgehog’s Dilemma

by Deirdreh



Series: I promise to stand beside you in sickness or health, in times of prosperity and decline, in peace and in turmoil. [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Drabbles, Metaphors. So many damn metaphors, Multi, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Prose Poem, Purple Prose, Soliloquy, The angst is strong in this one, prose without plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:33:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21696244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deirdreh/pseuds/Deirdreh
Summary: Until death do us apart.
Relationships: Gamora & Guardians of the Galaxy Team, Gamora & Thanos, Gamora/Peter Quill, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Loki & Thor, Loki/Thor, Loki/Thor (Marvel), Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Series: I promise to stand beside you in sickness or health, in times of prosperity and decline, in peace and in turmoil. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1563925
Kudos: 4





	Hedgehog’s Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> This is a translated work, the original one (that is also mine) is published in ff.net
> 
> Loki and Thor’s relationship can be interpreted as both brothers or lovers. Idc. (Tho I ship them, but I also love their brotherhood)

  
**i. Are you happy with your life? - Suffocate For F!ck Sake.** _(Loki/Thor)_

_"The light of life shines upon me. The sun. I live in every detail of it. Throws a glance. Across the sky, across the horizon. Not over my shoulder. The wind through my hair. The rain on my forehead. On the ground. On the grass. Birds, cars, crickets. Just a normal day. But I have longed for it. I'm alive. It's in my blood."_

_._

I must be doomed from the day I knew I wanted to live, not as a kind of curse but as a punishment. As if the fact of wanting to live or just stay alive was absolutely of my choice, and as if, with my mundane existence in sorrow, I could restore everything that my ancestors or past lives could usurp.

However, I am condemned without doubt, damn condemned.  
And first of all I decide to live, inexplicably, against all odds and all the rest of obloquies falling over me, I have this urgent need to live. Perhaps an intrinsic reflection of a living bein. Perhaps it’s simply because of that seditious nature of mine. Perhaps I want to prove to all those who carried out my sentence that their justice is nothing more than a futile vendetta, a nuisance in my shoe, or, rather a needle that is embedded in my spine ... Or maybe it is still not clear for me, why I want so much to live a life as hard as atone for.  
(Maybe it's your fault ... Yes, it must be your fault.)  
Perhaps it is a whim of mine (like a stupid pretentious childish dream that I cannot tear myself from this skin and these desires so effusive, so little essential, so vain and lacking in logic.

Maybe I want to exist with you).

And I would like to get rid of these pagan sensations that only hinder my path to victory; since a snake does not need its old skins. I would discard all this amalgam of useless sentimentalities and sink my daggers into your throat. Looking you in the eye, immutable, blissfully. While you drown in your own blood, brother. And I’d whisper right on you ear, so close that my lips will touch your gold skin, so close that it would be too late for you to run of my ill heart, so close that nothing the nine realms could do a apart. Just then I’d say “There is only one truth: chaos. From chaos, life and life to death, order.”

But I am doomed. So instead I say:

_"The sun will shine on us, I assure you."_

I am doomed to love you.

And I refuse to die with every cell of my omniscient, omnipotent and earthly presence. Since I am just a divine misfortune, the god of lies and a cold-blooded reptile that needs the sun. And you warm my icy bones, because you don't know how to do anything but radiate that effusion so subversive and useless.

You are something like the sun, so if you stop shining I will die.

.

  
 **ii. Altazor; Canto II- Vicente Huidobro.** _(Gamora & Thanos. Gamora/Peter & The Guardians of the Galaxy.)_

_"You are a lamp of flesh in the storm, with your hair blowing at full speed. Your hair where the sun is going to look for your best dreams. My joy is to look at you lonely on the couch of the world, like the hand of a sleepy princess, with your eyes that evoke a piano of smells. A drink of paroxysms. A flower that is ceasing to perfume. Your eyes hypnotize loneliness, Like the wheel that keeps turning after the catastrophe "_

_._

Loving you is a beautiful dream behind my deathbed.

I confess that I have never conceived the idea of a more pleasant and less lonely tomorrow; the problem is that I have never read one of those stories so ignominious. I have been a weapon, a soldier, a horse in a chess game, and before that a disgrace with luck that appreciated the daily bread as if it were something unique and that I should be worthy. Even so I keep a certain love for those days, the warmth of a mother and a true family, decadent, but true in the end and also the feeling of belonging, of being right and where I want. Like a piece in a puzzle and not a chess piece.

But that will never be again.

And the feeling of being out of place is a virus that accumulates in an old wound and under the scar swarms, thrives, eats my flesh and martyrs me to the edge of madness. And at that moment there is nothing I can refuse to avoid the pain, hold on to something, someone, or to someone else's beautiful dream. Although in hindsight it is nothing more than a nightmare; the end of time for the unfortunate, for the weak, for the unworthy and for the good as well, is indistinct. Death has always been inexorable waiting for us at the end of the road, everyone equally. And the reality is relative, so why despair?

However, any evasion is temporary.

Wake up from the dream and realize that it was actually horrible. And that there is something really screwed in your subconscious. And I really tried to love him and I tried to nest him in my heart, I tried to understand him as true love and I tried to find a meaning. A place next to me on the precipice of this loneliness, after all it is not the fault of a child trying to love a father above all.  
Even so I could not (belonging to his family, that part of unconditional and the one that sympathizes with his dreams-nightmares, but I could not).

_“This is not Love”._

Unlike him, I have half come to know what love is.  
And wanting is mutual understanding, acceptance, love.

Loving is in a song in one of your strange devices to play music, so obsolete that if you are insightful enough you can hear the white sound take over the melody. Loving is found by mistake and without desire to find it, and it sticks to the skin like a band of misfits with a home. Loving is a man of doubtful morals, impertinent verbiage and soft heart. Loving is you and the rest of you as out of place and time and unable to adapt as me.  
Loving is a real dream after days of insomnia.

( _“I love you, more than anything in the world._ ”) 

So if the end comes for me, I would like to have five more minutes to dream.

.

  
 **iii. I still think about who I was last summer- Old Gray.** _(Vision/Wanda)_

_"All resolve is lost as words fall from your lips. My trembling fingertips held out in question. So shake hands with regret, set to slip away. Your eyes crossing, rivers flowing under pale feet. As the moments countdown to flames. Meet and greet death, he wears a cloak of your hopes and dreams. Quenched like the raging fire they were once. (…) You're the sunset smile thundering out of a careless moment… If you would stay here with me, one more minute I would steal the world"_

_._

It is a paradox: Eternity in an instant; life as the second between two eternities, death as an instant in our eternal lives and, then, there is eternity that will dent those who love in return when the final moment reaches the loved ones.

Between all that tragedy, there are you and me.  
Resilient to the absurdity of time. Reconciling in the catastrophe. Reluctant before the inevitability of a written ending. Existing together. It is almost a paroxysm for cruelty that rushes us as an itinerant destination in the work of our lives. A battle won in war, a total defeat. Because we exist together there is a better place, where the paradox is not enough to curse it, at least as long as you don't let go of my hand.

I have noticed the ephemeral nature of this existence that falls on us; the loved ones and those who love to return, I have realized how implacable and how fragile it is. Since the moment we were first created, before we can even notice, the random expiration and scavenger starts counting the seconds for us to return to it. Second to second, expectant and anxious, she presents herself as the only participant of a game of chance in which as the game progresses it becomes for us more cruel, for her simpler and more lucrative. As if the fact of stealing from us, of taking away our loved ones, of leaving a void, was their remuneration.

Life is a countdown and there is no way to stop it; It is the end as the day of inexorable judgment.

However there is a way to overcome the paradox, break its curse, and it is existing together. So after the day the expiration comes for me, you can evolve me in the all moments that you find necessary. There, just when loneliness has you trapped and stealing your breath, remember me, and I will be immortal to spend the rest of eternity with you.

(Until that moment,)

_“I love you.”_

Life is an oxymoron, ephemeral eternity. Death is too, the instant in eternity.

Oh ...

and  
 _"I only feel you."_

(see you on the other side.)

.

  
 **iv. Los días después de nuestros días- Aspasia.** _(Steve/Bucky)_

_"I can anesthetize my head for a few hours with a cheap relaxant, but the hangover takes its revenge eventually. I can get distracted by contemplating a movement of the trees sitting in a lonely park, but the sweat ends up amplifying the mute laments of my mind. (...) I can visit old damn places that matter little to me today. I can take a mike to finally die another night in the grave. But nothing, nothing manages to get you out of my head. "_

_._

The passage of time seems so unlikely to me that if I blink a few times I will find my own death.

(And he does, he dies, for seventy years.)

The day I came back to life, it felt more like going down one more level to hell, all desperate souls burning in a world too hungry for greed, for being better no matter what else, a world hungry for prosperity, for the future, for perfection and of souls as evicted as it. A world without direction, an empty world.  
And yet a world that wants to live at all costs.

It makes me crave a little for the treacherous comfort of the past, even if it’s distorted, idealized, revived through subjective memories of longing. The past can always be a better place as long as you keep a single cozy moment with you. It turns out that there is not a single moment, there are too many days and hours and minutes and seconds invested. Too much time immeasurable, unbeatable. As beautiful and real dreams that invite me to aspire for a better day, a sunnier future by your side.

But you are not here. And the world keeps spinning as if it meant absolutely nothing, as if we were just anthropomorphic insects and expendable before a magnanimous hive. And yet I still remember you. I'm still waiting for you.

So the passage of time remains implausible, imperceptible and waning, like a sweetened condemnation, a paradox with the taste of old whiskey.

Until you come back  
And then everything makes sense again. I have a place in these world again. A place next to you.  
Nothing else matters.

"Steve ..."

Until you disappear again.

_._

_"(...) Trapeze artists looking for the balance between the cuts and the cold. Two hedgehogs avoiding death in the midst of the storm. From frosty pupils and icy walking we constitute ourselves, looking for the precise distance between our spines and the icebergs. It will be our heat against the designs of the steppe."_   
**El dilema del erizo - Aspasia**

**Author's Note:**

> All kudos and comments are loved ❤️


End file.
